


Marmoreal

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Scars, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marmoreal [adjective]: made of or likened to marble. </p><p>Maedhros looks into the face of a statue that is his own and yet not his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marmoreal

“My lord Maedhros” said the sculptor Gonnithil, bowing his head. “The statue is a work in progress, but I will gladly show you what I have done since you posed for it last.” He drew the sheet from off the carven figure with a flourish, and Maedhros caught his breath.

The marble was purest white and smooth, the face and neck, at least, polished to a shine though much of the body was still roughly carved. The statue was a little larger than life-size, and Maedhros found himself cricking his neck backwards to stare up into his own face, gazing nobly and pensively into the distance. But that was not what had caused his involuntary indrawing of breath, and the sudden stab of pain in his chest.

“I used an older drawing for the details of your face” Gonnithil said, a little breathless as he gazed up at Maedhros apprehensively. “I hope it is to your liking, my lord.”

Maedhros said nothing, momentarily unable to speak as he gazed at the stone face. It was at once achingly familiar and as alien as anything he had seen. With high cheekbones, a long perfectly straight nose, full lips that were perfectly symmetrical. He ran a finger over his own mouth, unconsciously, tracing the line of his real nose; he could feel the place where the delicate bones of his nose had been broken and then healed crooked, many times, could feel the place at the corner of his mouth where a jagged scar twisted it upwards a little in what people often mistook for a deliberate sneer.

Maedhros traced the line of the scar up his own cheek, feeling the roughness of the skin beneath his fingers, the ridged network of silver scored into his flesh. The statue’s face was smooth, its skin clear and glowing with brightness in the morning light. He thought bitterly of all the nights he had lain alone and run his remaining fingertips lightly over his face, his arms, feeling the roughness and wishing for smooth skin, for the softness that he had once taken for granted; such a simple thing, he knew, a trifle. And yet, as his wounds had healed, it had been forever there, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

He let his eyes move over the statue, from head to foot, and then let out a painful bark of laughter.

“What is it, my lord?” asked the Gonnithil apprehensively. “Does it displease you?”

“Oh, no” said Maedhros, tightly. “You are very skilled, Gonnithil.” He felt his mouth curving up into a true sneer now, as anger rose in him. “But I think you might have miscalculated the number of hands slightly…” he raised his hand and his stump before the sculptor, his voice sharp now, raw. “And I think if you were striving for realism you may want to take a chisel to the face. But apart from that, I cannot fault it.” He glared at Gonnithil, aware that his face was burning.

“My lord, I meant no disrespect, I only…” he faltered, quailing a little under Maedhros’ gaze. “Forgive me, lord. I thought you would want to be shown as you once were. I mean, you were named for - ”

“For what?” he snapped. “For my beauty? Why, yes. How could I possibly forget! But I suppose I must point out that I am no longer beautiful enough to grace the walls of some palace garden in Tirion, since you seem not to have noticed that.”

The sculptor bowed his head, looking stricken. “I meant no disrespect…”

“No?” Maedhros snarled, “no, I daresay you did not.” He felt bitter laughter well up in his chest again, choking him, as he stared at the statue’s two hands, eyes raking over that perfect face that had once looked back at him from the mirror. The sensation of seeing his own pale corpse in the white marble made his skin prickle unpleasantly.

It had taken Maedhros long enough to learn to recognise himself again when he caught a glimpse of himself in a reflective surface, and longer to learn not to start with horror at the scarred and twisted face looking back at him as strangers did… his stomach churned as he looked at the face of the fair boy called Maitimo he had once been, the headstrong young king Nelyafinwë who had died in the dark in Angband, his lifeless body hung upon the rock of Thangorodrim. He had been reborn though, as Maedhros, and this statue was not of him but of the broken spirit of his past self.

(That was the easiest way to think about it, Maedhros had always found, the way least likely to send pain and dizzyness shooting through his head. A death and a rebirth was easier than the pain that had truly come between.)

Gonnithil was speaking again, Maedhros noticed belatedly. “You must understand, lord, it was a particular stylistic choice to make it somewhat…” he swallowed nervously under Maedhros’ glare, “…idealised…”

Maedhros rounded on him. “ _Idealised?_  You have given me an extra hand!” He glowered. “But I don’t know why I am surprised.” He had seen the looks his own people gave him, looks of fear mingled with their reverence, young children staring openly until their parents dragged them hastily away by the hand. He had learned to use that, for it was what he had now. He was the grim figure of revenge, the cautionary lesson, his spirit and body marred. The proud lord of the house of Fëanor burning brightly here at the forsaken edge of the green lands, seeking the fulfilment of his Oath and the annihilation of their enemy, at any cost, burning with the fires of vengeance. That was who he was to them, he knew; many of his people loved him, but all feared him, just a little.

“I can… ah… adapt a few details” Gonnithil was saying, his words tumbling over each other too quickly.

“It matters not” said Maedhros, through gritted teeth. “Do what you think best. But get  _that_  out of my sight.” And with that he swept from the room. 


End file.
